that dizzy edge
by Antilochus
Summary: Robin intrigues; Isabella flirts. A pair of scenes of sunshine, mid series 3. Title shamelessly stolen from a song by The Cure. Dedicated to an-lagat-glas, written for the 2009 robinxisabella Secret Santa on Livejournal.
1. Chapter 1

She sat perched on the chair like it was a throne, one leg dangling over an arm, the slightest bit of skin showing beneath her skirt. He couldn't help but grin.

"I hope you have a good reason to want to see me," she demurred, pretending to glance over her nails, sneaking looks at him from underneath her lashes. "You know, there's only so many excuses I can give my brother for being away."

Robin smiled at that – the elder Gisborne was just hunting for ways to make his sister disappear, short of witchcraft or incarceration. Neither of them mentioned Prince John. The man was so mind-numbingly disruptive that there wasn't even a way to overcome him with humor –like a mountain, or a tidal wave, he just was.

"Maybe I needed some information," Robin offered. "But if you're too busy to get me anything…" He put his hands behind his head and stretched his arms, then turned, like he was going to walk away.

"No, wait!"

He glanced back at her, feigning displeasure. "Sorry, didn't hear you,"

"I mean, John's fortifying some Welsh territories now. Well, trying."

Robin snorted at that, but he unbuckled his quiver and put it down anyway, signaling his interest. "John proved himself incapable of working with the Irish – what makes him think he'll do better down south, I wonder?"

"I don't know," she relented, "Maybe he thinks that the lords there hate Richard so much they'll be willing to try." She paused. "His bid to keep Richard in Austria is being challenged by the queen."

Robin hugged his elbows, considering this. "So, maybe it's a sign of desperation. That could be good."

He glanced up at her, but she didn't mirror his smile. "You know I don't particularly care who's on the throne," she said, steadily.

"You should." His reply was automatic, snappish, even.

"Yes, _you_ should."

He dusted a bit of dirt off the bed-post, pretending not to hear what she said, and ignore that gulf between them. The Trip Inn was really slacking. "It's interesting that he's on the move. Can you get me a map, a list of names of who he's engaging?"

She fidgeted under his gaze, and bit her lip. "Would that make you happy?"

Robin stepped up to her, taking her hands in his, and kneeling before her. She cocked a brow, but slid her leg down, so that she could face him properly.

"Only if it doesn't put you in danger," he pleaded softly, wanting very very much for her to say yes.

Her dimples showed when she smiled "Right answer," she chirped. There was a mischievous sparkle in her eye as she pulled away, withdrawing out a leather scroll carrier from her bag, where she kept the yards of linen that had been her excuse out of the castle. Something about ladies and embroidery, Robin marveled – it was such a boring task, no wonder men never questioned it. He reached for the carrier, and she lifted it above her head, tutting.

"I don't do this as a favor – there is a price, you know."

"Oh?"

"A kiss."

He grinned, ear to ear, pushing himself up on his hands to meet her, but she pulled away. He frowned.

"And if you're very, very good, I'll tell you about John's conversation with the Scottish emissary." She laid a finger on his lips, hushing him, and leaned in so that their faces were only inches apart. The hairs on the back of his neck tingled. "But only if. I don't do this out of the goodness of my heart, you know."

His hands slipped through the open mouth of her surcote, just to catch the feel of her. No wonder the Church called that little fashion invention the Gates of Hell. His hands went to span the base of her back, delighting in the tactile sensation as much as in giving her pleasure. Stringing the bow, day after day, had left his hands calloused and rough, and no matter how many times he ran his fingertips over certain areas, it didn't feel like enough.

She trembled a bit, her mouth parting.

"I'm only after your information, you know. This is strictly business," he teased, and she answered him by grabbing his face by his ears, and pulling him in for a kiss. There wasn't much talking after that.


	2. Chapter 2

Sunlight lanced into his eyes when he woke up. He held up his hand, blinking momentarily in pain. The others were probably wondering what was keeping him. He hadn't exactly made it a secret to them that he was slipping away to the castle, but he usually tried to be back before dawn. A mop of frizzy black curls nestled into his shoulder. He pulled back to look at her, and she smiled.

She looked down the length of the bed and sighed. "I'm going to be in so much trouble," she whined, and flopped over onto her stomach, then groaned into the pillow.

He chuckled, "You're not the only one."

She sat up quickly, loose curls dangling into her eyes. "Yes, but your friends will forgive you for missing breakfast."

He shrugged. "Tell them you were sick. It's not like you spent your night out of the castle, in some strange man's rooms, right?"

She grinned, propping her head up on one hand, wrapping the sheets around her.

"No, I think that is exactly the opposite of what happened, Lord Huntingdon."

She was impish in the light, and a lot more fun than sitting around a cold camp, brooding through breakfast. His friends deserved for him to come home in a decent mood, anyway. Robin smiled, and reached for her.

"Just tell your brother you came down with the pox," he said, and she laughed. He couldn't say he was ready yet to be happy, but at times, he felt he was getting there.


End file.
